


Show Me

by ashisfriendly



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: F/M, Pregnancy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1689941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisfriendly/pseuds/ashisfriendly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben tries to surprise Leslie by painting the nursery but finds her old journals instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me

“Crap.”

Ben stood in front of the closet, now opened and forever overflowing with all the things Leslie said she got rid of. To her credit, she did get rid of a lot of her things, but not nearly as much as he thought. He wiped his hand over the back of his neck, itching a spot that wasn’t particularly itchy and dropped his hand to his thigh.

He looked around the room. Once their often ignored guest bedroom, it was now empty. The floor was draped with tarps and a ladder was in the middle of the room with two buckets of paint resting next to it. The mid day sun was casting a nice glow on the whole scene and he felt that becoming-familiar tug on his heart.

Their babies would be here. Four months from now, in this room, this beautiful glow from the sun would cascade down on cribs, toys, a changing table, a Swanson made rocking chair, and more books than any infant would need. He never payed much attention to this room when it was just their guest room, but now it was shaping into the most important room in the house. One he always wanted to be in, even before they started selling some of the furniture. One he was always imagining in different shades of light or with the sounds of laughter and crying and whatever confusion parenting would bestow upon them.

Ben rolled his shoulders and wiped his face with the bottom of his t-shirt. It was hot in the middle of summer with the sun cascading in, he would have to remember that. This room did get the best sunshine, along with the living room. He wondered if the little red, white, and blue curtains they got for the window would keep out enough heat. Or keep the warmth trapped inside in the winter.

He sighed. He wasn’t going to get to paint the doors of the closet today, but at least he got the light blue of the walls done. He replaced the cap of the white paint can and tapped it a few times with a hammer before returning to the closet.

In some weird way, this closet probably had a system. He wouldn’t understand it no matter how long he stood there trying to find a pattern or reasoning behind stacks and marks. So he just started, randomly and plainly, taking everything out of the closet and moving it into the hallway.

He found more birdhouses and endless board games. She had boxes full of letters and photographs that had yet to be sorted into albums or scrapbooks, which seemed crazy considering how many she had on their many bookshelves. He smiled at each box and its overflowing contents and shook his head at the inevitable haggling they would have to do to either finally get rid of her stashed away treasures, or find a place to put them. Oh well, much like many of their small arguments and moments of differences, it would end in making out and his hands, dry and crusted with bits of paint, were itching for her anyway.

One box was unusually heavy and oddly long and when he stepped out of the closet, it clipped the side of the door and he went falling backwards. He yelled, as if anyone was home to hear him, and felt the wind knock out of his stomach with the box’s force. He coughed and rolled over, pushing the box off of him. Ben steadied his breaths and refilled his body of oxygen.

The box fell over and its contents toppled out. Ben got on his knees and pulled the box upright and grabbed one of the small books and put it in the box. It wasn’t until the third notebook that he finally realized what he was boxing.

Leslie’s journals.

Not only Leslie’s journals, but archives of them. Some were in composition, cardboard notebooks, others in leather-bound journals, some in plain spiral notebooks, and her earliest ones were filled with elementary journal paper, complete with a middle dotted line for letter perfection. No wonder this box was so big, so heavy. This box was her entire life, all of her, every ounce of Leslie Knope.

Once he realized what he was holding, he let go as if the pages were burning him. This whole idea of getting the bare bones of the nursery ready for Leslie while she finished up a project with April seemed futile now. He shouldn’t have done this, especially not this, not touching her history, her private thoughts and journeys through her life. He quickly picked up journal after journal with two fingers as if just touching them would reveal what was inside.

There was probably a method to the way she packed these but he would be able to tell her, without so much as a twitch, that he didn’t look at any of them. It would be dishonest to do anything other than put these away and not look at them whatsoever. Their marriage was built on trust and understanding and looking at her private diaries would be a breach of that trust.

But if he just read this one, that was already open, and it was clearly from first grade, surely that one couldn’t hold any secrets. And it was open. And there were only six words on the page. He only read it because it was so easy for the brain to read six words when they were in plain sight.

He picked up the notebook.

_DADDY SAYS i WILL BE PRESIDENT_

Ben grinned, his heart light and stomach calm. There was a drawing underneath her words of Leslie in a yellow dress with her yellow hair. She had a green tie around her neck.

Without thinking, he turned the page.

_i WANT A DOG MOMMY SAYS NO_

Instead of drawing a dog, Leslie drew paw prints all over the page in a rainbow of colors.

He turned the page.

Ben followed her thoughts through to the end of the book and he grabbed another, unaware of where it would land him chronologically. She was older in this volume, her sentences had punctuation and her words became bigger. Pages kept turning and he swallowed all of her words, misspelled, misused, in all capitals, in cursive, in shorthand when she was especially heated.

He read out of order, just grabbing whatever book was next. One moment, she was writing about doing a clean up at the park with her dad and the next she was saying how hard it was five years after his death at Christmastime. He couldn’t stop. He was in so viciously deep that he couldn’t claw himself out. He should, but it was impossible now.

_…I just know that Lindsay will turn to my way of thinking soon enough. I am not trying to pressure her into seeing that I am right, which is what she says I’m doing, but rather, I’m trying to get her to be very certain that I am correct…_

_…The rally for a weekly waffle day in the cafeteria was awful. No one joined me even after I put all the fliers up around school. The thing I don’t understand is, if no one wants waffles, what do they want? What could be better?…_

_…Sam is so sweet, today he met me in front of the English building with a bouquet of chocolate roses. I don’t know what I did to deserve him, I mean I am the president of the Youth in Politics club so I suppose I can understand…_

_…I miss daddy…_

_…and I won. I am co-vice president of Student Council!…_

_…Mark and I had sex last night…_

Ben stopped.

He shouldn’t be reading this. He shouldn’t be reading these. How did this happen?

He blinked and looked at the pile of read journals next to him. It was practically half the box, if not more, and now, finally he stumbled upon something so into her adulthood he really felt the pressure to stop.

But his eyes dropped.

_… and it was wonderful. There was so much build up, you know, like a beautiful flower that was just waiting to bud and Mark was there to do it. I know that sounds a little cheesy, but deep feelings can do that to a woman. What can I say? We had a few drinks and then he invited himself to my place. He paid for the cab and everything. He wears briefs! I always imagined him in boxers for some reason. Anyway, it was all very romantic. I mean he kissed me all the way to my bedroom and I was practically naked before we were even inside. I was very nervous but he kept telling me ‘calm down’ and I think it was really helpful._

Ben rolled his eyes, groaning.

_He has a great voice. He insisted that we move on to sex because he doesn’t really like foreplay and that it’s silly and you know, he makes a good point, what is the point of all that stuff? It felt amazing, the room was spinning and everything just felt right. It was one of those things where the world feels like it is slowing down, and we were the only two people on earth. I don’t think I’m conveying this the right way or in the way it deserves to be said but just know it was wonderful. Afterward, he ran and vomited in the bathroom. I thought I had done something wrong but he assured me that it was ‘just the alcohol’ and fell asleep. In the morning he was gone, probably off to do something very smart and amazing._

He kept flipping, going through Leslie’s infatuation with Mark and his obvious attempts to avoid her. Even in her own voice, optimistic and romantic as it was, he sensed Mark’s distance. His stomach churned in an unreasonable lurch of jealousy. His chest tightened in compassion for her.

It was hard to imagine her this way. Leslie was so strong, so big, so full of bright optimism for herself, her city, this country, the world, and she was letting herself get treated like crap by this asshole. He denied her lunch dates, he talked about women he was with right in front of her, and there were countless other incidents of ignoring her. She sugar coated everything with her flowery words and shiny consideration for him.

Mark didn’t deserve Leslie’s consideration, he didn’t deserve an ounce of what Leslie gave him. What an idiot. He had her, right in his fucking hands and he lost her like a remarkable fool. Ben should be thankful, and he really was, but he also pitied Mark. Pitied his naivety and unknowing treasure that was dropped in his lap. He didn't know what might have been, Mark would never have a calendar full of holidays and the perfection of a Leslie Knope Christmas morning.

Poor Mark, poor everyone else in the world.

Ben slammed the journal shut mid sentence. He needed one more, just one more to take the rotten taste out of his mouth. He needed a lift, a fresh, smiling, bright look into her. He pushed the notebook away and pulled out another in a swift movement. He opened in the middle and there was his name, in big bold, letters.

The B was sharper, not in her normal loopy handwriting and was lined over and over, traced until it bent the paper into the one behind it and made the bumps of the B thick with blue ink. Through gifts and small notes over the years he had seen his name written much better than this, in a way that didn’t make his heart hurt or legs numb. He knew she didn’t like him when he came here, he knew that.

None of this should be shocking, but it was.

_…a more deflated person would take this as a sign to give up, but I won’t. Ben would like me to stop emailing him, but I wont. I can’t sit in my house and think about the children who aren’t running on the lawns of Ramset Park or the closed trails that can no longer be enjoyed by every Pawnee citizen. I will show Ben what this town is made of, how important its citizens are, how glorious its parks are, how the faith of a government and its people can keep it running, keep it happy, keep everyone happy. I wonder if Ben knows what happiness is. Probably watching people walk out of his office, crying, because he took away their jobs and took away one more income. Maybe he finds joy in watching children sit on their front steps and wish for something better. That better thing is in his stupid, cold hands. Does he have an altar of all his best slashes? Does he clean and sharpen a machete every night before bed? He’s the year-round Grinch, but nothing, not even singing carols and overcoming adversity will help grow his heart—_

“What are you doing?”

Ben jumped, the pages flying and then falling in an echoing thump on the floor. His heart popped its rhythm against his chest, pushed the blood through his body in rapid beats.

His wife was here, now in the flesh and off the pages he was soaked in. The light moved across the room, the sun riding its coarse through the day as Ben was absorbed into Leslie’s past. He sprang up, notebooks shifting and falling from his legs. He wiped his palms on his jeans. His throat was closed, his words lost in the dusty, stale air of the room. Ben grappled, tried to catch anything to say to her.

He watched her take him in, take in the mess from the closet, the scattering of her life at his feet. Various notebooks were open while others were closed, faced down in a clear ‘read’ pile. Some were still in the box, untouched. Ben’s mind fought, a battle of words and cues. He wanted to know how mad she was, how disgraced and upset, but he also needed to say something.

“Leslie.”

Her eyes finally flicked to his.

“What are you doing?” Her words were shorter this time, she was digesting the information in front of her but disbelief still clung to the back of her throat.

Ben rubbed his face and pushed his hands through his hair.

“I am sorry, I don’t know what I was doing.”

“Are you drunk?” she asked. Her eyes left him again and went over the spread of memories.

“What? No.”

“Then you knew what you were doing.”

She wasn’t angry, that much was clear. Instead, her voice dropped, in a low disappointed whisper of words that sent a clear signal: she was hurt.

“No, Leslie.” He took a step toward her but she tensed, leaning back, her eyes on the box. He stopped. “I was going to surprise you, I painted the babies’ room today.” He gestured to the paint cans, to the walls. “I was cleaning out the closet and—”

“What did you read?”

Ben swallowed and looked back to the pile. How could he tell her? There wasn’t a way to make this better, he knew what he was doing, he knew the whole time.

He fucked up. That’s it.

“Leslie, I didn’t mean—“

“What did you read?”

The anger pushed into her voice. Her eyes stayed low. He took in a few breaths, letting her perfume fill his lungs, scraping his vision along her belly, selfishly craving the closeness and comfort it brought him. Too many beats passed but she waited him out.

“Too much.”

Leslie’s head fell and her hair swooped over her face.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m embarrassed. There’s stuff in there, Ben, stuff no one was supposed to read or know about. You’re in there, other men are in there, my father’s death is in there. Those are private.”

Every breath she took between words was broken, shattered, and he wanted desperately to pick them up and put them back together.

“I know.”

“And it’s really shitty that you did that.” There was a tremble to her voice now. Crying. He was making her cry. He was making the love of his life, the mother of his children, the reason he breathes, cry. Over something stupid like curiosity and selfishness. “You are my husband but that doesn’t mean you had the right to do that.” She looked up to the ceiling, blinking, frustrated that she was allowing herself to cry.

She cried so much lately. Leslie was always dripping with emotion, ready to laugh or beam at something joyful and cry and curl into herself with sadness. But with the pregnancy, it was twice as easy for her to jump to each emotion fully. She flew head first into what emotion called to her. This time, it was hurt, frustration, plain sadness.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

“We could have looked at these together, I would have shown you, but this is different.” She shifted her weight and ran her fingers under her eyes, catching her tears before they slipped down her cheek. “What did you read?”

“Leslie—“

“Tell me.”

“Maybe we can sit down—“

“Just tell me. The damage is done.”

His heart twisted and each ventricle pulled, tearing the muscle. Sweat clung to the back of his shirt while his breaths clouded in his lungs. He felt dizzy, like the world was tilting and the ground was giving way under his feet. Even though he knew she was his, that they were having triplets together, that this wasn’t the end (no matter how terrible he was in this moment), he felt like he was losing her.

“Your dad said you were going to be president.”

He shouldn’t have started there. Leslie choked on a sob and touched her fingers to her mouth. She rapidly blinked, pushing back the tears.

“You wanted a dog, you hated the school lunches and insisted your mother pack you one instead. I read about the road trip you took to Indy with Lindsay. I read about Mike and Lance and Sam. Your waffle day rallies and student council voting. Your falling out with Lindsay, your memories of your father, your struggle with calculus.”

Her eyes raked the room as he spoke. He stayed out of her sight, she wrapped herself in this room, the babies’ room, and her spread journals and listened. Her teeth gnawed at her bottom lip while her hands played together over her belly.

“I read your Founders Day project brainstorm, your lists of sexy politicians, your goals for the summer of 1992.” He paused. He was having a hard time accessing more information, remembering more things he read because two things haunted him, two things he didn’t want to say out loud. “Mark, I read about Mark.”

She looked at him then. Her beautiful, sad face looked at him like she was caught with cookies in her sock drawer again. Her cheeks were streaked, no matter how hard she tried to fight them, the tears won. Her eyes were red. He took a slow step toward her and she didn’t move. One more. He was lucky to get this far so he stopped, an arm’s distance from her.

“Me.” He swallowed. “How I didn’t listen to you, how my heart would never grow, how I danced on the dreams of children.”

“I said that?”

“I added that last part, but you said worse.”

Leslie sniffed. “Good.”

Unsteady heat traveled through Ben’s legs, into his stomach and clawed at his chest. He stepped toward her again, placed his fingers on her neck, gliding his thumb over her chin. She stiffened at his touch but didn’t pull away. Her eyes spilled again, just one stream down her cheek. He leaned into her, let her round belly push into him. He was pushing his luck, he didn’t deserve this closeness, so he stayed there, craving but thankful.

And then he started talking, spilling, unraveling like breaths were meaningless and his voice would never tire.

“When I was 14, Henry told me that his girlfriend was pregnant and that I had to keep it quiet until they took care of it. I made up some story that Henry had to miss Thanksgiving dinner because of some emergency hockey practice. Henry never thanked me for that but I never really understood what he went through that day. I was in love, stupidly, stalker-ishly in love with this girl in college who gave me her bonus granola bar from the dorm vending machine. I peed my pants in third grade, twice. After Ice Town I thought I would never amount to anything, so much so that I fought, physically fought my father to not make me go to college. He hit me in the face and threw me in my car and stood on the driveway until I left. I was too scared not to go. I lost my virginity the day after I was elected mayor to Sasha Moss, who I never called back. My first fan fiction story, A Cylon Falls in Love, was written in my Political Science notebook in 7th grade and someone stole it and published it in the school paper. I fell in love with you the day I met you, but I didn’t know it until about a month later.”

Ben took a breath and studied her. Her eyes shifted across his face, her lips slightly parted. Her cheeks were puffed and red. He rubbed his thumb along her jaw bone just to feel something. He licked his lips and leaned in closer.

“I can recite all of Clueless by heart, I pushed two-year-old Stephanie off the couch and lied about it on the way to the hospital, I—”

“Stop.”

“I’m not done. In high school, my friend Sam bet I couldn’t make the cheerleading squad, so I went to try outs and actually got on the team.”

A small chuckle slipped through Leslie’s throat. She bit her smile and Ben, addicted, kept going.

“I went to one practice. I don’t know why, I already won the bet. At summer camp—“

“Shut up, stop, stop, okay.”

“I’m just trying to make this right.”

Leslie sniffed again. She leaned into his hand on her face and pushed her hands around his waist. She moved so slow and calculated, like he might pop at her touch or reveal some other thing he did to betray her trust. He let her do the moving, the pushing, the pulling, until he was bent over her belly with his face in her hair, her lips against the small patch of exposed skin at the collar of his t-shirt.

He took in the smell and feel of her. The vanilla wafting with the smell of coffee because she still couldn’t resist the sugar infested, whipped cream topped decaf frappes. Her chest rose against his, her stomach full and beautiful between them. Piece by piece, muscle by muscle, he relaxed, focused on the feeling of her breath tickling his skin and the steady warmth of her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into her hair.

“I really would’ve shown you most of it, you should have waited.”

“I know.”

“That was such a shitty thing to do.”

“I know.”

“It really hurt.”

He inhaled, took her in, thankful that she was still here, still his.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Leslie.”

He pushed his nose into her hair, parted the locks until his lips found skin. She sighed, leaned into him, and let him kiss her. He kissed her neck, her ears, her jaw, her cheeks. He held her face in his hands to keep her steady, to keep him grounded so he could move to her other side. He repeated his route, only backwards. Cheeks, jaw, ears, neck. He kissed her clothed shoulders, over the chain around her neck that reminded her of Ann, up the center of her neck until he got to her chin. He kissed her nose, her forehead, wiped his thumb across her wet lashes with regret.

Ben rested his forehead against hers. His nose smoothed over hers and he placed his hands on the back of her neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She shivered and Ben held tighter, pushed his fingertips into her hair, along the skin of her neck. His thumb rested on the joint of her jawbone and he felt her swallow, felt her teeth grind together in thought. He grazed his nose across hers and pulled back to kiss her forehead but she gripped his shirt, tried to keep him close, as if a kiss to the forehead was too far away, as if any breach of skin was a mistake.

Their foreheads connected again and she sighed, licking her lips. His gut sloshed and fell and his legs became numb. He let out a shaky breath and lowered his voice, so low and desperate he didn’t know if she heard him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Show me,” she said.

He went in fast and clumsy but he just needed her. His lips overpowered hers but she responded just as hungry, just as desperate, but he knew better, he knew she was working off anger, frustration, hurt. Her tongue pushed open his lips and she inhaled him, took control and pulled him out of the baby’s room and he helped guide them down the hall.

She slammed the bedroom door shut and it rattled the walls and vibrated in his ears. The sound made his blood pump faster, made his hands quicker, kept his head dizzying. He was frantic and messy when he should be calculated and slow, but her energy was hard to stall. She asked him to show her how sorry he was, but right now all she was doing was showing him how angry she felt.

There was time, there would be plenty of time. So he let her throw his t-shirt over his head and push his pants to the ground. He worked on her blouse and the elastic band of her jeans. Her first touch was hard, rough, and it made his legs weak and he fell back on the bed.

“Leslie,” he hissed.

He clutched the edge of the mattress and she stroked him, delicious, tight grips that went from the base to the tip and back again. She paused, just enough to let him move his hands from the bed to her waist. He dug his fingers into her flesh and let his head drop to her chest. She moved, up and down, twisting and gripping and he was slowly losing himself in it, wanting her to move faster and harder, wanting her to drop to her knees, totally forgetting why they were here, the purpose of their nakedness.

“Leslie,” he said.

Her other hand joined hers on his dick and covered more of him, clutched more of him, rubbed more of him.

He took a breath, tried again. “Leslie.”

He moved his hands up her arms and felt her muscles work, and she moaned, a frustrated moan, but one that still pushed through his skin and circled his muscles and rendered him useless.

He fell back, his head bouncing on the mattress. Her hands stopped and he heard the snap and fall of her bra but she was back on him before he could move. Her thumb rolled over his tip and slid down his shaft with her fist, her thumb gliding up and down the underside of his cock. He gasped and squirmed, her name spilling out of his mouth in a mixed cry for her to keep going and to stop. He was showing her nothing. He was supposed to be showing her he was sorry.

He was sorry, he was so sorry, he was an idiot and a jerk and nothing what she deserved.

But her hands. They were smooth and held him tight, just enough to make it hurt a little but not enough to ever make her stop. She moaned when he moaned, said his name when he gasped, and straddled his thigh to get closer and all he could think of was the heat against his skin. She bent over, her belly bumping his leg and breath hot on his dick. His hand found he hair and he no longer was thinking. He just wanted her, he was selfish enough to forget and just wanted his wife’s mouth on him.

She parted her lips at the top of his dick and licked around the head in a perfect circle and then lowered herself in a slow, beautiful swallow. He gripped her locks and groaned. Her hand followed her down and back up. She moved faster, her breasts moving around his balls and grazing his thighs and his hips and his shaft. She bounced, fast and rough and with slips of her tongue. He was climbing, lost and useless. He held onto her hair with one hand and fisted the comforter with his other and let himself yell, moan, and become undone.

“Leslie,” he panted, like an idiot, like a 16 year old who didn’t know how to control himself.

Her mouth slipped off of him and she purred, “Ben.”

“Shit.”

She closed her lips around him again and moved. The cool, clenching heat started in his thighs and spread into his hips, rose into his balls. His breathing quickened with her strokes and licks and he groaned, rolling his neck and arching his back.

“Leslie, I’m—fuck.”

Ben’s leg shook and his fingers scraped the bed in desperation. She felt amazing, perfect, her mouth warm and wet and wanting. She was rough and sexy and everything he could ask for and he was being swallowed by her, taken into a realm where thoughts meant nothing and breathing no longer held meaning.

“Leslie,” he yelled at the ceiling. He was close, he was there.

Her hand left first, and then just a quick lick of her tongue at his tip and her whole body was gone. Ben let out a whimper and his body seeped into the bed, suddenly heavy with every muscle clenched, left wanting.

He let his breath catch up to him and pushed off the mattress. She stood there, glowing and her lips wet, catching her breath. Her breasts heaved with each inhale. His dick throbbed for her and every part of his animal instinct told him to pounce, registered her mussed hair and glowing skin and perfect breasts to mean he needed to have her. And he did. But she did this for a reason. Just a small reminder, and he got the message, loud and clear.

Ben stood up and walked up to her, taking a short step to the side to dodge her belly, allowing him to be closer. He smoothed his body up to her side, lined his fingers over her chest, her collarbone, and down to her breast. He cupped the soft flesh, lined his thumb around her nipple and over it, feeling it rise under his touch. He nudged her nose with his to get her to look at him and captured her lips.

He kissed her slow and felt every inch of her pull for more but he didn’t let her. Ben Wyatt didn't work as fast as Leslie Knope did. If she wanted him to show her how sorry he was, this would be awhile, this would be tender and slow so everything he needed to say could be traced on her skin.

He parted her lips and lined her slow with delicate swipes of his tongue. He hummed into her mouth and relished in the sighs she gave in return. She felt uncontrolled in his arms, she was willing when he turned her around and softly placed her on the bed. He guided her to sit on the edge, spread her legs with his hands, just a smooth line of his hands up the top of her thighs and down the inside. Her knees parted and he stepped between her legs and cradled her face in his hands and kissed her. He held her and kissed her thoroughly.

His tongue smoothed over hers. He kept her from moving faster, held her jaw when she started to go too quickly, pushed on her tongue when he needed to take back control. She obeyed, sighing into his mouth or letting out her frustration with her nails on his biceps.

Ben dropped his hands to her shoulders and gently pushed, guiding her to the bed. One hand slipped to her back and he held her, made sure she was lowered slowly and gently. Their mouths disconnected and she whimpered and he groaned but his lips soon connected again. He kissed her chest, collarbone, breasts, down her side, along her stomach, at her hip. He licked and sucked down one thigh and up the other.

She was only breaths and moans and small trickles of his name.

He pushed down the inside of her thighs, her legs spreading wider. He licked the crease between her leg and torso, up one, down the other. He puckered his lips around her, leaving light kisses along a random trail from her belly button, to the bottom of her stomach, her thighs, and her cunt.

The room held a coated stillness and he swallowed it, just looked at her, all of her. She was bigger now, yes, holding his children and bearing all the responsibilities of that. Her body was still beautiful, maybe even more so. Not more or less, just different, like another stage of his love for the sight of her. Her poor skin stretched and he quickly thought back to all the times he rubbed lotion over her stomach, from when it was just a small mound and how it grew over weeks and weeks. Of course rubbing lotion on her made his hands slip lower and her mouth twist up and small hums turned into moans and she slept so soundly. Not just because they fucked, also because she slept so much better now. This babies made her sleep eight hours a night and sometimes she took a nap. Ben was forever grateful to them for teaching their mother how to sleep.

He kissed her again, let his lips linger over her opening. She tasted sweeter since the pregnancy, only a little, just enough for him to notice. Ben inhaled and she adjusted her thighs, moved her legs over his shoulders and he slid his hands up and down her legs, trailing apologies along her skin.

“I love you.”

Her voice stopped his hands, made his lips leave her, just a breath away. She sighed those words, like a soft escaped breath that carried something for him in the air. He turned his head and kissed her thigh.

“I love you. I’m sorry.” He let his forehead rest against her leg and he breathed her in.

“I know. Thank you.”

There was a beat. Just one, long beat where the air was still with sweet and calm.

Then she tightened her thighs and pulled him close and his mouth opened on top of her.

Ben hoped his enthusiasm alone was enough for her. He was desperate to etch his apology into her, use his tongue to show her he loved her, cherished her, only imagined his life with her. He told her this so many times. With words, with his tongue, his lips, his hands, his fingers, but it was never ending. There was always something to create doubt, always something that made a snag that needed mending. Weeks ago it was a fight about curtains and months and months ago it was the uncertainty of children because of their age, and today it was his total breach of trust and selfishness.

His tongue pushed inside of her, swirling and thrusting, his whole face buried. She arched her back and dug her heels into his back, riding his face. He gripped her thighs and pulled her closer, needing her friction over his nose, his chin, his mouth. Being engulfed by her was a privileged treasure.

He traced his tongue over her opening, to her clit. His tongue was fast and clumsy but her rapid breathing and stumbling words kept him going. The finesse in eating Leslie out was in his need for her. He may not be the best at this, no matter how many times Leslie insisted he was, but he wanted her the most and that counted for something. He loved being here, feeling her legs over his shoulders, squeezing his head, her hips bucking and pushing him closer. Her smell, her taste, the way she fit around his tongue. How she dripped over his lips, onto his chin, how he was lucky enough to still taste her after she came. The vibration in her core when she screamed, the tightness in her muscles when his name slipped from her lips as she peaked. Beautiful, amazing, perfect.

“Ben.”

Her voice made his tongue slip and his rhythm faltered. She said his name many times when he was doing this, but she sounded serious, even, nothing like the frantic cries he was used to.

He quickly kissed her thigh and looked around her belly. She was staring at the ceiling.

“Have sex with me,” she said.

“I want to do this.”

Leslie looked down at him, biting her bottom lip. “I just, I feel guilty.”

“What? Why would you feel guilty?”

“Well, I was kind of a jerk to you a second ago.” She raised her eyebrows.

He rubbed his cheek into her thigh and kissed it. “Yeah, but I was a bigger jerk.”

She nodded. “True.”

“Relax, Knope, let me apologize first.”

She laughed and looked back to the ceiling. Ben watched her chest bounce, the smile linger on her face before he pressed into her again. They immediately found rhythm again, his tongue sliding into her opening and over her clit while she bucked against his face. He pulled her closer and she pushed harder. His fingers spread over her skin and he pressed deeper against her. He felt every piece of her, tasted each part of her, inhaled every scent of her.

Her muscles clenched and her left heel dug deeper and deeper, bruising into his back. He had her, she was deliciously close. He swallowed her, lapped at her, enjoyed every swipe of his tongue. Her whole body shook and her fingers lightly grazed his hair while his other hand gripped the sheets. She repeated his name, angled her hips so he could hit her just right and he moaned, deep and long into her to push her one more inch closer to the edge.

Then she was there, shaking, screaming, clutching, and grinding. He held onto her as she rode it out, licked her clit softly as she trembled under him. He kissed her thighs, kissed her hips, rubbed her off on her skin but licked his lips over and over so he could keep tasting her.

Ben wanted to crawl up her body but he always worried about her stomach, afraid he was going to crush the babies. He bent over her, grateful for his height, though it wasn’t impressive. Leslie pushed up to meet him halfway.

They kissed, slow, full of breaths, and sweet.

“I’m so sorry,” he said between kisses.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” she giggled.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I appreciate your apologies but I’m tired of hearing them.”

Leslie smiled and fell back on the mattress and spread her thighs. She wrapped her legs around the back of his and pulled him flush to her and she gasped when his dick touched her. He groaned. She wrapped her legs around his waist and angled her hips. Ben moved against her, rolled his hips and then pushed. They both sighed. Ben felt his skin buzz and his insides turn to liquid. She was warm, tight, wet, Leslie.

He pulled and pushed and they sighed together again. Leslie rolled her neck and licked her lips. He ran his hand over her breasts, along her stomach, grasping her waist. Her eyes found his and her lips turned up in a sinister, wanting smile.

“Show me,” she said.

He did. He pounded into her and told her how beautiful she was and how great she felt. She gripped sheets and rocked against him, her breasts bouncing. He cursed and thrust into her hard, rougher than he had in months.

“Ben,” Leslie said, her voice calm and serious.

Ben stopped his hips and rubbed his hand over her thigh, catching his breath. “Oh God, sorry Leslie.”

“It’s okay.” She took a deep breath and clenched around him. He shivered. “I want that but it hurts.”

He nodded with one more soft apology and moved slower. Their breaths echoed in the room, soft words of love and admiration falling out of Ben’s mouth and Leslie’s moans seeping into his ears. Leslie lifted her hips and her breathing quickened and Ben’s thrusts picked up but he kept them softer, didn’t push too far.

His name was beautiful on her lips and her breasts rocked in a gorgeous wave. He watched them move, relished in the shine of her lips, the pink flush of her neck. Ben’s hand slid down her thigh and his thumb pushed on her clit, circling with the amount of pressure that always made Leslie yell.

And she did. First his name then profanities, beautifully strung together in breathy chaos. She climbed again and Ben moved faster, trying to match her. He focused on her breasts, imagining the feeling of her nipple between his teeth, the familiar hitch of her words when his tongue circled across the soft flesh. Everything was faster now, electric and building until her back arched from the bed and she screamed and he thrust twice and let himself go deep when he came.

Ben’s legs shook as he pulled from her. She whimpered, her legs falling over the bottom of the bed. He crawled onto the mattress and snuggled into her, pushing his lips through her hair to her neck. He rubbed her swollen belly and waited for them both to drift to sleep.

His mind was fogged, just starting to push through into sleep when she stirred. He blinked awake and let her move from him. She put on one of his t-shirts form the floor, bunching up around her belly. She put on pajama pants and walked out of the room, without a word.

Ben waited, letting her have a moment alone. He scooted himself up the bed and sat up by the pillows, his back on the headboard.

Leslie walked in with journals in her arms. She stood at the bottom of the bed with her belly poking out of his t-shirt, her hair mussed and cheeks still tinged pink.

“I don’t think I have forgiven you yet,” she said, smiling, “but you should see some of this.”

He straightened up and patted the spot next to him. She joined him, cuddling into his shoulder and handing him the first notebook. Ben touched a strand of her hair before taking it.

“The beginning of this one is during our break. If you flip to the end, you can read the first entry after the night we got back together.”

Ben’s stomach felt empty and light, swirling with nerves and the flooding of memories. He quickly opened the book, thumbing toward the end of it. Leslie stopped him, on a page with only five words and a small heart in the top right corner.

_Screw it, I love him._


End file.
